


Time Upon A Once

by Gryphonrhi



Category: Chronicles of Amber - Roger Zelazny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-12-22
Updated: 2004-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-25 02:46:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1627490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gryphonrhi/pseuds/Gryphonrhi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A thorny tale of 1 missing prince, 2 princesses, 2 cats, 3 witches, and a silver bird.  Some overlap possible among categories; partridge in a pear tree not included. Drinking while reading not recommended.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time Upon A Once

**Author's Note:**

> Written for TreeWishes

 

 

_Once upon a time, there was a prince._

_He was a third prince, to be precise, although that was only because two of his older brothers had died. His father's marriages and alliances and diplomatic 'considerations' had left all of them unsure that there might not be other princes and princesses as well, but as it stood, there was Benedict, and there was Eric, and there was Corwin. For various reasons -- some of birth, some of conduct, some of reputation -- Corwin was thought to be a likely heir to the throne should their father die. This was only a thought however, for Oberon had named no successor._

_Once upon a time, there was a third prince. And the prince had gone missing._

_Gone away, gone beyond, gone altogether -- that was Corwin of Amber. Short of death, his family should have been able to contact him through his trump card. So the sorcerers among them thought, and most of that family was skilled in basic magic at the least. No one had been able to contact Corwin, however, neither alone nor_ en masse _. And yet no one had seen his body -- or admitted to it, if they had._

_Once upon a time, there was a third prince, and the last person to see him alive was Eric, the second prince._

_Perhaps unreasonably, perhaps reasonably, no one entirely believed Eric's tale that Corwin had ridden off in a rage. When no contact could be made by any of them, slowly but surely his brothers began to go in search of Corwin of Amber. First Benedict, the oldest and wisest; then Brand and Gerard, younger brothers, curious and loyal respectively. They looked high and low, near and far, in Shadow and in Amber, perhaps even in the Courts of Chaos, those who knew how to find them to look therein._

_The hunt, and the hunters, continued on. Corwin's father looked at times, and more of Corwin's brothers rode out as well. Some were looking for Corwin's sake; some for Amber's sake; some for proof of fratricide 'gainst Eric had such in fact occurred. Even some of his sisters went looking -- perhaps in protest of the assumption that the throne of Amber must be held by a male, or to protest Eric's nearness to the throne, or to protest their own innocence in the disappearance -- or perhaps they were bored. Who knows?_

_The brothers' stories, and Corwin's, have wandered into history and legend and tapestries in the great hall of Amber. The sisters' stories have gone unmentioned._

_Until now._

 

They'd followed the road through the forest. It was partially overgrown now, and the yellow-flecked flagstones were half-buried in mud that no one had cleared in decades. The forest itself was overgrown -- no loose limbs collected for firewood, no nuts stripped for fall roasting, but left for squirrels and chipmunks, deer and elk, and the vagaries of fate. So few creatures wandered this forest that thickets of young trees now fought for light and air, and left the forest crowded and dangerously wild in the face of such neglect from its neighbors.

From their hilltop, the forest lay behind them, but not as far behind as perhaps it should have. The trees had begun their slow encroachment onto what had once been a meadow fit for fairs and markets and grazing animals to feed the castle's inhabitants. Across the now-narrowed meadow, a keep had backed onto the river -- for defense, surely -- although a town had once stood in front of it. Now only an immense mass of thorns waited there, mounded over the houses and almost grown over the keep, watchtower and all.

No flag proclaimed the tower's occupants in brilliantly-colored heraldry against the blue-violet sky. White streamers of clouds whipped by, seemingly torn to wisps by the mass of thorns and brambles. The thicket was brown and gray already, already massed in winter shades and lack of leaves -- berryless, leafless, and full of thorny stems and thorny trees. Bones lay along the edges of the thicket and in the short, seemingly random starts of paths: white bones and yellow and gray, whole bones and broken, untouched bones, partially fleshed, and gnawed. There a scrap of torn and nibbled leather; here a rag of wind-torn, sun-faded cloth that might once have made a scarecrow; farther along, a bird's nest lined both with straw and a great many curly red locks.

Only a few of the bones belonged to animals.

A silver bird perched on a black-locust tree, reflecting the blue-purple sky along its back and rattling its feathers in a minor key chiming. It sat on its branch and preened its silver feathers into place and scored the bark with tightening ruby talons and screamed in frustration from time to time. Its voice had none of the beauty of its feathers and shape; the caw held the metallic rasp of a sword being drawn.

Two princesses sat below the bird, although neither looked much particularly royal at the moment. One had hair red as the flames of their campfire, but she had braided it back tightly, revealing her face: sun-tinted ivory, clean-lined as the work of a master craftsman, even with blood and mud splashed along her skin in thin streaks. The other sister was carved of jade, with olive skin and dark green eyes and hair, and softer curves of skin, and bone, and muscle. Her hair had been confined into a multitude of tiny braids, each threaded with gray leather and all of them tied together at her nape with a thicker piece of leather. A bow and mostly empty quiver lay in arm's reach, but the blood on both of them was hers and her red-haired sister was busy sewing up the long, shallow gash on her leg.

"It's not really fair," Llewella complained as she watched the bird rather than her sister's needle.

"That they managed to cut you?" Fiona asked calmly, intent on her work. "I'm almost done, Llewella."

"No, that's fair enough; I was shooting at them. What annoys me is that our brothers attract interesting animals -- horses that thrive on Shadow rides, or Julian's hounds in Arden. Gerard got to fight a dragon, the great hounds love Flora -- yes, I know she's a bitch, that's obvious." Fiona's smile barely tilted her lips, but Llewella saw it. "Explain to me, though -- why did I have to be irresistible to winged monkeys? Blue-gray flying monkeys?"

Fiona's smile widened. "Aren't you the one who always has dolphins swimming with her in Rebma and Shadow alike?"

"That's not much consolation after a day of being chased by flying monkeys pelting us with monkey-scat, Fiona." Llewella sighed and relaxed back as Fiona finished the stitches. "I hate doing that for myself.... Thank you."

"You're welcome." Fiona tidied the thread and needle away into a belt pouch. She took a long drag off the wine skin and passed it to Llewella.

The bird screamed again, stalking down to the end of the branch and back to the trunk with a clatter and chime of feathers that refused to resolve into a recognizable tune. Both women winced at the sounds.

"I've been meaning to ask." Llewella stirred up the fire carefully before reaching for the spare trousers in her pack; they were worn and faded to lavender and near-white instead of purple and gray, but soft enough to be comfortable over the stitches. "You haven't cast any spells in the last eight Shadows. Is there any reason?"

"The last twenty Shadows, actually. I don't think it's wise while we're looking for Corwin." 'At your instigation,' Fiona left unsaid, but Llewella nodded without a trace of apology. "Unless I simply can't find another way to accomplish our goal, I won't use anything but the trumps. Corwin's not the best sorcerer among us, but he might well feel a spell being cast, and he wouldn't know who had cast it. I'd rather not have to chase him another fifty Shadows, or face whatever spells he might use against us if he thought we were a threat."

"Does Corwin know destructive spells?" Fiona could almost hear Llewella wondering if any of them did...starting with her traveling companion.

"I have no idea," Fiona said calmly. "I prefer not to find out as the flames are raining down upon us, either. You brought a bow and extra arrows. I brought a sling and shot. Both of us have swords, and food, and medical supplies, and money."

The bird screamed again, impatient, and Llewella looked up at it. " _Patience_." To Fiona's surprise, the bird quieted. "Do you think Corwin's hiding? Licking his wounds, as it were?"

Fiona busied herself with cheese and dried fruit and bread from their packs, long-fingered hands as deft among dried grapes and apricots as they were with her drafting tools. "I find Eric's version of events unlikely, but I also find that I can't believe Corwin is dead. I could be wrong."

Llewella nodded and handed the wineskin back. "I agree with you on both counts. What is that bird, however, and why are we going through these thorns?"

"That bird is a seeking spell formed of the silver rose that clasped Corwin's favorite cloak and a few drops of my blood. I would have added hairs from his brush, but he'd cleaned it and burned them. He always has been cautious."

"So that's why it looks and sounds like it's made of silver." Llewella looked more interested. "Will it go back to being a cloak clasp when we're done?"

Fiona glanced up from the last bites of her sandwich, surprised. "It wouldn't in Amber. Here...perhaps. We've wandered into a realm of story, I think. Narrative conventions seem important here." Her sweeping wave took in the green field, the fairy-tale clouds piling along the horizon, and the river chuckling and burbling along behind the field.

Llewella frowned. "Wonderful. The tales don't usually have the princesses completing the rescue in less than a few years or with all body parts intact."

"It's not usually the prince who's gone missing, either. Not of his own volition." Fiona began to check fastenings from the front laces of her shirt down to the laces of her boots. "Are you ready?"

Llewella finished the last of her lunch, dusted her hands off, and began to do the same. "Why not? My leg will stiffen up if we sit here." She went to hang her quiver back on her mare's saddle, stopping to stroke her muzzle before strapping on a short sword. Her limp was barely noticeable.

Fiona checked the saddle girth, nodded, and fed Breeze a handful of molasses-sweetened oats that she'd been saving for her. "Beautiful girl. Wait for us here; trample any would-be thieves. We'll be back soon." Her mare lipped the sweet grain up delicately, then moved to stand head-to-hindquarters with their pack horse. Llewella's gelding took up station on the pack horse's other side.

Llewella was looking at the brambles. "If we aren't going to use magic, how were you planning on getting through those?"

Fiona gave her a rueful look. "The hard way, I'm afraid. If we can. If it gets too dangerous, well, I have a few very...quiet spells."

Llewella just smiled at her. "I have no trouble believing that you know subtle spells, Fiona."

Fiona arched an eyebrow and dug in the other saddle bags. "I brought a pack of tools. Let's see what they look like in this Shadow." The pack turned out to have machetes, and a large spray can marked with skulls and crossbones and emphatic XXX marks over the silhouette of a tree.

Llewella's mouth tightened as she considered the can. She hefted one of the machetes instead. "Let's try this first-- Fiona?"

Fiona ignored Llewella's words, face gone expressionless as she listened to the rising susurrus of warning. From the forest came the long, slow creaking of trees rubbing past each other and the rushing surge of the land surf as treetops swayed back and forth above them. Fiona didn't understand the language of the woods as well as Julian would have, but she'd spent enough time in boats to understand the change in the river's voice all too well: the water was beginning to rise and drag over shoals and wood with gurgles and splashes and a deeper tone to the chuckling. If she'd been on that river in a canoe, she'd have headed for shore immediately.

Fiona put the can back into her pack and laced it shut with a deliberate thoroughness. "Machetes will do, yes." She eyed the forest as she said it. It took another minute or so for the trees to still their rustling, twisting motion, and a few minutes more than that for Fiona's face to regain any animation. The river, too, fell back to its lighter, higher register.

The half-sisters looked at each other, jade green eyes and emerald green eyes, jade hair and ruby, the brightest spots of color in that brown and gray landscape -- other than the bird, which blazed silver and blue, white and black. They'd heard the warning, and they'd follow the rules. Until it was time to shatter them.

 

_Once upon a time, there was a third son who completed impossible tasks to achieve his goal, although the goals changed as often as the tasks. One son was out to make his fortune; another fell in love with a beautiful princess; yet another wanted to save his sister from an oath his brothers had made. Some of them battled dragons or other creatures; some of them solved maddening riddles, with and without the aid of 'helpers'; still others...well, some of them failed, after all, and become footnotes and offhand references in the tales of the victors._

_Some sons have charm; some have help; but some sons are simply born to deeds of strength. The children of Oberon had strength beyond that of most mortals, beyond that promised by their appearance. Grace they learned as needs must, and speed they honed against each other; focus and concentration were sharpened by the twists and turns -- and particularly the straightways -- of the Pattern. Brute strength, however, ran in the blood._

_They were not a family to set to impossible tasks. Perhaps it was simply that they had their own opinions of what was possible -- and an ability to find places where impossibilities still existed, but what was impossible had changed. Perhaps it was simply the stubborn streak that Oberon had gifted to most of them. Whatever the reason, it must be said that their methods for achieving the 'impossible' would likely vary as madly as they did and be every bit as effective._

 

A mortal would have been swallowed by the thorns inside an hour; the princesses had already been working considerably longer than that. They were both sweat-soaked and strings of beaded blood had dried along their exposed skin where the thorns had caught them. Their clothes were holding up a little better so far, spotted with fallen sap and dirt as well as blood. Llewella wiped her sleeve along her forehead and brought her machete down on the base of the vine. Fiona, her hands gloved in short leather gauntlets that were already wearing through, pulled the vine back and wove it into the tunnel they'd been creating. She shoved the fragment upward, stuffed its edges into the other brambles, and pushed the whole mass back a little farther, wishing again that she had a bit more of her father's height.

Llewella could hear the rustles and snaps, as well as a silence more cutting than any profanity would have been. She kept going, trusting that Fiona would keep up with her or say something if there was a problem. One thing did worry her, though, in this tunnel they were cutting through the thicket: "How quickly is the path closing?"

Fiona didn't look back. "It's just as well we won't have to depend on it to get out again."

"Ah." Llewella dropped to her knee as she chopped left, then withdrew the blade and sliced back to the right as long as she was down there. The extra force behind her first cut hacked most of the way through a three inch honey locust sapling, leaving sap on the blade that soaked into the berry brambles. Fiona moved to her left and stomped the sapling farther into the thicket with a lethal crossover kick that Benedict had taught all of his sisters. The tree slammed into place, holding back a rustling thorn vine that was trying to come loose and fall in their way.

"This blade is dulling too," Llewella warned, then she frowned as she looked farther ahead than the next cuts. "Am I hallucinating? That looks like the door to the keep, but it's intact."

"Of course it is," Fiona said, and her ironic sense of humor had survived their efforts to get even this far. "Someone has really thought about how to aggravate would-be heroes." She caught the last canes that Llewella cut, threw the rubbish behind them, and tugged a final stand of brambles out of the way as they broke into the open space afforded by a paved courtyard; the vines hadn't managed to uproot all the flagstones yet.

The keep walls rose up in front of them, dark green granite which was shot through with light where the sunlight sparked through copious mica flakes. Even after years or decades of neglect, the stones were still sharp-edged and precisely aligned; clearly, the place had been designed to withstand siege engines, tornadoes...and perhaps annoyed mages. Fist-width stone columns extruded from either side of the doors; empty now, they seemed designed to hold banners in better days.

The silver bird stooped from its irritable circles overhead with that maddening, rasping caw that seemed to suggest they were late for a battle. It perched on the sinister flag rest, talons tightening on the stone until that rasping sound grated on Llewella's nerves too.

Beside her, Fiona said calmly, "We're working on it." The bird settled to preen its feathers with a chiming clatter.

The weathered oak double doors stood balanced in place. The hinges weren't visible from the outside but wide, wrought iron braces held the broad planks together. Considered _in toto_ , the iron drew a diamond from the top-center out to the doors' edges, just above the vertical center, then back down to the bottom-center again. The edges might have been intended to represent curves or waves; thick iron bands spun counterclockwise from the corners to the center and ended under a crown set with green glass 'stones' at the points.

Llewella slid the machete back into its sheath, shrugged it over a shoulder baldric-style to leave her hands free and spine slightly more protected, and drew her sword. "Ready?"

Fiona glanced over. "For?"

"I thought I'd start with the basics," Llewella suggested. She set her shoulder against the door, her feet against the flagstones, and pushed. Wood and iron creaked in protest but held nonetheless. "So much for them leaving the door unlocked."

Fiona's feline, triangular smile tilted the corners of her mouth. "I think that would be too easy -- unless we'd come in with a battering ram, in which case I'm sure it would be open. This really is an oddly designed trap."

Llewella glanced at her. "What else are you expecting?"

"I'd rather not give anyone any suggestions," Fiona said dryly. "This is a very responsive environment. Step back and I'll try something else." She pulled a thin dagger from her boot. The watermark along the blade glittered briefly before she worked the dagger between the doors.

Llewella's retreat had taken the pressure off the doors without putting her back too close to the bramble thicket slowly choking off their path out. At her first sight of the dagger, Llewella turned to watch for attacks from behind; mostly, she wanted a moment to think. Fiona's ability to feel someone staring at _her_ was well known in the family (and unmastered by the rest of them); Llewella didn't want to attract Fiona's attention as she filed away the fact that there was one more Pattern-marked blade than she'd been aware of until now. Werewindle, the Daysword that Brand carried; Grayswandir, the Nightblade left untouched in Corwin's quarters since he'd vanished; and now this slender dagger that Fiona kept in her boot as if it were nothing. It was information worth having...and hoarding.

Behind her, wood creaked in protest and then Fiona said in a voice of soft urgency, "Hold still, Llewella. Hold _very_ still." The thorn thicket rustled angrily but it wasn't louder than the soft clacking sound of claws on stone that came from behind Llewella. Fiona was still speaking, quiet and intent and cajoling -- a sweet, loving tone that Llewella wasn't sure she'd ever heard from her sister.

"Ah, such beauties you are, aren't you? Sleek and deadly, sweet and vicious...come, come, ah, that's it. Yes, it's been _ages_ , hasn't it?" Fiona was crooning to them now and slowly a rumbling purr started up. "Such superb hunters you are, yes.... Ah, that's it. Here, we'll hunt you dinner soon, truly." Fiona's voice never changed as she said, "Slowly, Llewella, very slowly, turn around."

Llewella moved cautiously, ready to jump for the flagpole rest overhead if need be. It wasn't necessary. Fiona was kneeling between a pair of hunting cats -- cheetahs, perhaps, if cheetahs came with gold spots on dark green fur and deep brown intelligent eyes. Fiona had a hand wrapped firmly around each jeweled collar, but they were purring at her loudly enough to be heard yards away, tails lashing contentedly.

Llewella settled to one knee at a snail's pace, then held out empty hands, backs up, for the cats to sniff. "Exquisite, definitely. Hello, hunters."

The cats eased forward, Fiona coming with them. Llewella had a moment to see where tendrils of hair had escaped her braid, as adrenalin burned this sight into her memory: the starkly beautiful danger of the cheetahs; her normally-impeccable sister, who was just as dangerous; the yellow-flecked flagstones in sharp contract to the dark green granite...and then the cats licked the backs of her hands with raspy tongues and settled onto their haunches, tails coiled almost primly around them.

Fiona murmured, "Yes, that's it, my beauties." To Llewella she said, "This is getting ridiculous. Hunting cats?"

"The teeth and claws are real enough. Thank goodness you get along with cats," Llewella said simply.

The bird launched itself from the flag stand -- silently; it seemed to realize the dangers the cats posed it -- and glided over their heads and into the keep.

"I suppose that's a hint," Fiona said dryly, and they followed it inside, accompanied by the pacing cheetahs.

Light still streamed in from the upper windows; not enough to see well, but enough to show stairs leading up on either side of the entry hall. The sisters exchanged a look, nodded, and headed upwards. The public rooms would be downstairs; more private rooms -- and a visitor -- would be upstairs. They'd hunt for dungeons and cells last. High ground came first.

The load-bearing walls seemed to be cut from that same dark emerald stone, softened and lightened only by the wall hangings everywhere. From the workmanship, textile crafts held a high place in this realm. The tapestries almost begged to be touched, stroked, examined, hung in places of pride rather than left like this. Llewella studied one intently -- slate blue surf crashing against a basalt black cliff face as snow silvered it -- and thought very seriously about rolling it up to take home with them when this was over. When she glanced over at her sister, Fiona's hand was hovering just over the surface of a brilliantly crimson and saffron field of poppies.

Llewella smiled at her. "Finder's fee?"

"Irritation surcharge?" Fiona suggested, lips tilting up into her own smile. "I think so. That is lovely. We need to establish trade with whoever does such detailed work."

A clap of thunder presaged a gust of smoky wind, and the cats growled at the sound. A sharp, female voice snapped, "You need to leave!" Llewella turned to see a young, brown-haired girl hovering mid-air. She wore a blue and white dress and silver slippers and stood on the air as if it were solid under her feet.

Fiona only said firmly, "Not until we've found what we're looking for."

The witch had her hands fisted on her hips; it looked more like the start of a temper tantrum than a warning from a sorceress skilled enough to cast spells like the bramble and river wards. Fiona, at least, seemed distinctly unimpressed. Llewella found herself wishing she'd brought her bow and quiver inside instead of leaving them with the horses. "We're here for Corwin." Llewella considered the girl thoughtfully. "We could settle this peacefully...?"

"You're here to free the wizard?" Brown eyes widened in shock, then narrowed; the young witch's face went still paler with fright or looming fury. "No! You can't!"

Llewella smiled and goaded her. "What, can't find our brother? Why not? We've come this far already."

Fiona laced amused condescension through her words, a skill she'd honed on several of their brothers -- Corwin among them. "How are you going to stop us? Stomp your pretty shoes? The floor's that way; you'll need it."

"I'll stop you _both_ , and your traitorous cats too!" She flung her arms wide in apparent protest and smoke billowed up from the floor.

Fiona said calmly, "Well, that solves that problem." She spoke three words and sketched a sigil in the air as she did. Gusting winds erupted from her fingertips and blew the witch back two yards in the air. More importantly, the smoke from below whipped out the front doors with a booming clap as the doors shut again. A second later, the crossbar fell into place as gravity took over, and the second boom of its landing echoed hollowly from the stone walls.

Llewella was hefting her sword, fairly sure it would be useless to throw, and checking her belt with the other hand to see what she could loosen if only for a diversion. Pouch? No, she'd have to undo the belt. Contents? Hmm. Heavy coins....

The girl came up onto one knee, still in midair, and made a sweeping, backhanded gesture towards Fiona and Llewella's section of the stairs. Every tapestry behind them -- and the walls were covered with them -- began to glow, light emerging and strengthening like a sunrise sped up. Behind Llewella, cold wind gusted out of the seascape, carrying a salt-spray tang; a hawk's scream rode down that frigid breeze, promising prey and hunts and dinner very soon. The cloyingly sweet taste of poppies spread around Fiona, and the ringing melee of hunting horns rang out from the forest hunt tapestry above them on the stairs. A beast grunted in the tapestry below Llewella, large and sounding altogether too much like a raging river horse.

The cats had turned to face the tapestries, ears back and tails lashing as they prepared to leap. The silver bird stooped down upon the witch first, however, raking her face with its ruby talons. She screamed and staggered, losing her balance and dropping almost a foot before she caught herself. Fiona's belt knife, aimed for her stomach, grazed her shoulder instead, and fell the ten feet to the floor with a clatter. Llewella grabbed the water skin off her belt and threw it. She'd meant to distract the witch from her spell, hoping the woven gateways needed as much concentration to open as trumps did. She was successful beyond her wildest dreams.

The bag's cork popped loose as it hit, soaking the blue and white dress from chest to thighs. As the water soaked in, the witch screamed in mortal agony and doubled over. "You bitches! I'm melting!"

Steaming away, really, Llewella realized, startled. Fiona only watched, intent and neutral as the cats waiting by her feet, her hands out to the sides and ready to cast another spell. Behind them, the approaching cries of the summoned animals cut off abruptly, and the scent of sea spray and sun-warmed flowers began to fade as quickly as the witch did.

Within a few moments, the witch was gone, only her silver shoes hovering mid-air to show that she'd ever been there. The slippers vanished with a pop a moment later, only to reappear next to Llewella's feet.

"Water?" Llewella asked, still amazed. "She died from water?"

"Apparently. How _did_ she manage to enchant the river?" Fiona wondered. She considered the newly arrived shoes. "Are you going to take those?"

"Why not? I don't think I'll try them on just yet, but they are my favorite color." Llewella tucked them into her pouch.

Fiona nodded, scratching behind the cats' ears to soothe them. "The castle hasn't come down around our ears, at least, but I do think we ought to get moving."

Llewella nodded agreement and stalked up the stairs, her sword out. "Still want the tapestries?"

"I think we'd better learn how they work before we take them into the castle, but of course," Fiona said, surprised. "Don't you?"

Llewella chuckled wickedly. "Give up the advantage of being able to give a lover a truly cold shoulder when I'm annoyed? Of course I still want it."

At the top of the stairs, a hallway branched left and right, extending to windows at either end of the keep. Comfortable seats had been carved out of the walls underneath them, and thick still-intact cushions lay on the benches. Doors were visible at irregular intervals along the walls, and two of them, at least, must lead to more hallways; the entry way wasn't nearly so wide as the keep.

The floors, however, were covered in thick glass. It gleamed in the dwindling light, flawless and slick.

Fiona just looked at it. "The problem with beginning a war of spells is being able to end one...." She studied the hallway thoughtfully, then knelt on the uppermost stair and set a hand to the glass. Her eyes narrowed in concentration and the glass began to ripple under her hand. Llewella shifted to get her back to the wall and guard while Fiona worked whatever magic had seemed so obvious to her.

After a few minutes, Fiona said, "Done." Her voice was as level as ever, but she sounded more tired than Llewella liked with only one sister as backup and two unpredictable hunting cats still sitting there.

"Drink some of your water, would you?" Llewella asked as she turned to see what Fiona had done. The floors lay covered in a wind-rippled layer of sand. "Ah!" Then she considered how much sand there was and winced.

Fiona smiled wryly and drank down half her water skin. "Yes." She shook her head as the bird cawed impatiently from a door down the hall. "We're coming, you impatient creation."

They walked through the sand, ignoring the way it gritted underfoot and tried to get into their boots, and they opened doors as they passed despite the bird's impatience. Where Corwin lay was important; so was not getting ambushed on the way out.

Llewella closed the door on her third room. "Two more maids; polishing furniture, this time. Sound asleep on the dresser and chairs. I hope their necks don't have a crick from being there so long."

"None of my rooms had spider webs in the corners, or anywhere else," Fiona said thoughtfully. "No one had visible bug bites, or hair or beard that had overgrown -- they may be sleeping, but I think it's closer to stasis than true sleep. The cats may have been the only things awake here, and I wonder if they weren't released when we got to the courtyard."

"I haven't seen any soldiers," Llewella pointed out. "Not even in places where we'd have set a guard."

"Then perhaps we'll get out." Fiona was looking around thoughtfully. "I think I can keep the spell from collapsing when we take Corwin out -- assuming it's tied to him, of course." She glanced at Llewella. "You'll have to carry him."

Llewella shrugged. "I can't hold the spell." She nodded to the bird. "All right, let's go."

The bird dropped down to perch on her shoulder, careful of its talons. Llewella hissed in surprise. "It's light." She paced forward slowly, careful of its balance, until the bird ruffled its feathers next to her ear, hissing and turning its head to look at a door she'd nearly missed seeing.

Fiona opened the door cautiously. It opened onto a large sitting room; a richly-ornamented, finely-worked black and silver rug covered the floor almost completely. The indigo couch covering was every bit as lovely, but the ash-wood chairs weren't nearly as inspired. "Hmm. Carpentry isn't as well regarded here." An emerald and silver curtain filled the archway across the room from them.

The bird launched from Llewella's shoulder with that same sword-rattling cry, beat its wings twice to pick up speed, and dove through the opening in the curtains. Llewella winced at the new cuts on her shoulder and followed it...only to curse in a long, rolling string of insults that Corwin had once set to music to see how many profanities he could work into one song.

Fiona looked at the sleeping prince on the bed and said dispassionately, "You're right, he's too young to be our Corwin. He must be one of Corwin's shadows. I was afraid that not having any of Corwin's hair or blood might be a problem."

Llewella growled, " _Now_ what?"

Fiona watched unsurprised as the bird stretched itself across the prince's shoulders and chest and melted back into a silver rose clasp. "We roll up the tapestries we want and I open a path through the thorns -- now that I don't have to worry about startling him with spells. If the battle in the foyer didn't wake him, turning a few brambles to hay won't either."

"Do we leave him here?"

"You know his temper," Fiona said calmly. " _Corwin_ has a Shadow here -- he must have lived nearby at some point. We, however, haven't; this prince won't know us."

"Ah. Good point." Llewella looked at the young man -- barely full-grown when he'd fallen asleep from the looks of him. He had the gawky look of adult bones without adult muscle firmly in place, and the strong lines of the face were still emerging from the baby fat of the last growth spurt. He had a bare beginning of black stubble across his cheeks and throat; one hand lay on the pillow beside his face, palm up, fingers barely curled. He looked young, and vulnerable.

Llewella, who'd always gotten along with Corwin better than Fiona, controlled a worried wince. "He doesn't look dangerous."

Fiona raised an eyebrow. "Normally, Llewella, neither do we." Her voice was remarkably bland and Llewella sighed at the reminder.

"True." Llewella nodded and let practicality settle back over her. "Tapestries, then the horses...." She paused. "I do hope your new cats don't go after the horses."

"It should be all right. The pack horse has been Shadow-traveling for a week, and our mounts don't flinch at Julian's hell hounds anymore."

At one point, as they systematically rolled up the tapestries -- not all of them enchanted -- Fiona pondered, "I wonder if I need to turn the sand back to glass?"

"Why?"

"If it's tied to the spell around the keep, taking it away might prevent anyone from ever undoing it all."

"Or it might unravel it all?" Llewella tied up the last tapestry they were taking, then glanced up the stairs. "Oh. No, I don't think you have to do that, Fiona." She pointed out the glinting edge of the stairs. "I think it's freezing into glass again all on its own."

Fiona looked up and frowned. "I should have realized it would, after the brambles...just as well we're almost done here."

"We'll have to walk the horses until we can find some pack horses along the way."

"Or we'll have to trump back to Amber," Fiona countered. "If you insist on trying again, we'll need more medical supplies and arrows. And it would be easier than a two week ride with cheetah-spooked horses."

"Spend tonight in our own beds?" Llewella said, but the prospect of a featherbed and the cooking at the castle did sound wonderful -- even if they'd have to tell their brothers they'd failed.... "At least we found one of Corwin's shadows."

"Yes. I can't imagine how he's holding us all off, though. Unconscious somewhere, maybe? After this long, though, even we'd be dead. Imprisoned, perhaps, although I can't imagine what would keep the trumps from reaching him...."

Llewella slipped her dagger into its sheathe and stood up, smiling briefly as she did. "Princesses breaking in and leaving the prince behind.... I'm almost sorry we killed the witch. The stories about this would have been interesting to hear, after fifty years or so."

"I doubt they'd get it right. We'd be princes, and he'd be a princess, by the time it was all done. Or we'd end up the villains, or something equally odd. Evil stepsisters? We couldn't both be the evil stepmothers."

Llewella pointed out dryly, "Of course we could. Look at our family, Fiona."

Fiona nodded and hefted the tapestry to her shoulder in one frustrated motion. "I take your point. We've always kept secrets well, for that matter, but this is ridiculous. I can't think of any way, or place, Corwin could hide so long. Where _is_ he?"

Both princesses were facing the front doors, tapestries slung over their shoulders. The fireplace -- large enough to roast a full cow or warm an entire winter's hunt -- lay behind them in the center of the great hall, between the curving double arms of the stairs. They could be forgiven for not seeing the surface of the large mirror over the mantel.

The intricately woven frame shifted colors and then the silvered glass rippled briefly before revealing an older version of the prince upstairs. He sat by the fire in a smoky tavern, warmly if not richly dressed, haggard and wary in appearance with stubble on his cheeks and dark circles under his eyes. A still-steaming mug sat at his left hand; with his right hand, he was writing swiftly with a quill pen. After a few minutes, he put down his pen and propped his chin on his fist in contemplation or weariness.

The image faded slowly as the brambles were forced to allow the princesses safely out. They returned with their horses through the swath of hay and loaded the tapestries, soothing the horses' anxiety over the great cats with bribes of apples and sweet grain. The keep's doors swung shut again as the women trumped out to Amber in a rainbow shimmer of light.

The brambles and thorn trees rustled softly as they grew back into place with the finality of a rising tide, overtaking the hay with no pity for the fact that once it, too, had been part of the defenses. If only as nutrients for them, it would defend the castle again. In the forest, the winged monkeys gathered to eat the nuts and late fall fruit and watch for intruders to torment. The yellow stone road glittered with the last light of the sun, and the emerald keep waited for the next attempt to wake its prince.

Inside, the mirror reflected nothing at all: it had grown too dark.

 

 


End file.
